


The Four Gates

by dustjacket



Category: 30 Rock, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Greek and Roman Mythology, Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Biblical References, Family Reunions, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Immortality, Multi, THE MOST RANDOM OF ALL CROSSOVERS, Time Skips, seriously though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustjacket/pseuds/dustjacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a well known fact that the Eastern Gate was guarded by Aziraphale. But the very designation of 'East' implies that there is more than one entrance, and more than one Guardian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd post a few chapters of this, see if there was any interest, and maybe post the rest (still in progress). I honestly don't know if the Venn diagram for someone who's into these specific fandoms includes anyone other than me, but we'll see...

     The sun shone bright on the brand-new world, flowers bloomed and filled the air with the sweet smell of creation. Vines twined around the trunks of the verdant trees, their branches reaching towards the heavens. The newly-named animals lounged in the soft grass and Adam and Eve sat together by a stream; this was the Garden, and it was good. Aziraphale stood at his post by Eastern Gate, his flaming sword at his side, a symbol of his strength in the Lord’s Garrison. Aziraphale sighed happily and passed his gaze over the Garden, smiling. He was enormously bored.

     “It almost feels too good to be true.” he sighed, to no one in particular.

     “I doessss, doessssn’t it?”

     Aziraphale startled, nearly dropping his sword. He looked around for the speaker and his gaze fell on a large, black serpent coiled lazily around the low-hanging branch of a fig tree.

     “Wait, I know you. You’re-.”

     “Crawly.” the serpent flicked his tongue, “I know, it’sss terrible.”

     “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow, glaring at the snake.

     “Believe me, if I knew I’d tell you. They jussst told me to get up here and make ssssome trouble.”

     “Already?”

     “Yesss, well you know us armies of darkness. Keen.” Crawly grinned as much as a snake could grin. Aziraphale pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder into the Garden. Adam and Eve were splashing at each other in the creek.

     “I should smite, or thwart, or something. Shouldn’t I?” he frowned, not sounding terribly enthusiastic about the idea.

     “Hm. Maybe. Another demon would be along ssssoon though,” Crawly had slithered further up the tree and was now above Aziraphale. He lowered his head until he was eye-level with the angel. “And I can guarantee they wouldn’t be as good a conversssationalisst as me.”

     “I can’t just let you go in, though.” Aziraphale tapped his sword on the ground, “They would have my skin.”

     “I haven’t come up with any proper plotsss yet. And besidesss, this place issss far too good to be true. There needsss to be a little bad influence…” Crawly looked smug, “...if you asssk me, that isss.”

     Aziraphale shifted from foot to foot and leaned against the trunk of a date palm. He could see the branches of the Tree, heavy with apples, through a thicket.

     “Let’s say I pretend not to have seen you…”

     “Yesss?”

     “I am not an angel inclined towards making judgments, serpent.”

     “Of coursseeee.” The snake’s hiss had a sarcastic tinge to it.

     “My duty at this gate is to keep THEM...” he pointed with his sword towards the two humans, “...IN. Not to keep anything out, persee.”

     “And what doessss that imply?”

     “It _implies_...that I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Crawly.” Aziraphale paused and straightened up, trying to look intimidating, sword flickering in his fist. “Go to the center of the Garden, serpent. Take refuge in the Tree of Knowledge. The humans know they are forbidden to go there. These are the conditions I give to you.” he paused. “...and, maybe stop by at some point? It has been enormously dull without anyone to talk to.”

     “Sssoundsss like a deal.” Crawly flicked his forked tongue out, brushing Aziraphale’s nose and sending him into a sneezing fit. The serpent slid off the branch and coiled onto the ground. “Thankssss, angel.”

     The Garden lay before him, lush and idyllic, and as he slid through the grass the other animals shied away. Even the plants seemed to draw back from his presence, clearing a path between him and the Tree. Eve watched with fascination and revulsion when she caught a glimpse of his long dark shape sliding through the grass. For a brief moment he twitched his head back, and Aziraphale swore that he saw a yellow eye wink at him.

     “Too good to be true indeed.” Aziraphale resumed his post and a cold wind rustled through the leaves of Eden.


	2. The Beginning

It was a dark and stormy night. And like all dark and stormy nights, it could only truly be so because there was someone stuck in it who was wet, cold, and desperately waiting for morning. A lone fire flickered, the man and woman around it the first to fear thunder, the first to huddle together in a cave that was not quite as tall or as deep as they would have liked.

An angel and a serpent watched the fire from a mountaintop where the air was still and the moon shone like a silver dollar in the dark sky.

"Thingsssss don't look good in the Eassst." the serpent hissed.

"From where we are, everything is East."

The two lapsed into silence again, the angel gazing out at the lonely speck of light. The serpent flicked out his tongue and swiveled his black head.

"There are other angelsssss coming. Do you know them?"

"The other gate-keepers, I expect."

"Othersss?"

"Well, of course." The angel turned to his companion. "This is the Eastern Gate, did you think the other three were just left unattended?"

"Didn't occur to me, I've just sssspoken to you."

"You may want to, um, get crawling. They probably won't be happy to see you."

"Any lessssss than you?"

"I'm not in the mood for any smiting just now, I'm afraid." The angel set his head upon his bent knees, looking despondent. Crawly uncoiled himself and started slithering down the mountain, yellow eyes scanning the sky for winged shadows

"I'll sssseeeeee you around, angel."

"I expect so, Crawly."

"Never liked that name much." He disappeared into the grass with barely a whisper. "I'll have to find a new one."

The angel, suddenly experiencing loneliness for the first time in his existence, wished that he had something to read. A shadow passed over the moon and a large shape dropped to the ground, the dirt and rocks seemed to consider making a sound, but decided against it.  

"Greetings, brother Aziraphale." A tall woman shaped-being with gray eyes and the mottled wings of an owl loomed; her dark hair was coiled in braids around her head and the golden spear she carried humming with power.

"Greetings, sister Mathenael."

"Your gate stands open." Her tone suggested that this was not an observation, but a unfavorable judge of character. Aziraphale sighed.

"So it does."

     "Then they are gone."

He pointed in the direction of the flame. “So they are.”

Mathenael peered into the darkness, leaning on her spear. "Poor souls." She paused, then turned to Aziraphale. "Where is your sword, brother?"

"Oh!" he blushed, "Well, you see..."

At that moment there was a panicked shouting in the distance. The sound grew louder, before resolving into a large crunch slightly down the slope of the mountain. Aziraphale took the opportunity to sprint away from the uncomfortable conversation that was developing. In a cluster of bushes there was a figure bent at several awkward angles, a tangle of hysterical sand-colored wings and robes that Aziraphale set about extracting.

"Akennthiel, if you could just hold still for a moment!"

"In the name of our Father, Aziraphale, have you not seen?! Have you not heard?!" The angel managed to crawl out, uprooting a few plants in the process. "They're GONE! I can't find them ANYWHERE!"

"Yes, Akennthiel."

"They just disappeared! I've looked high and low, I asked EVERYONE, and I just---" He was flapping his wings wildly, periodically smacking Aziraphale with his bronze harp. Mathenael looked deeply unimpressed with the display.

“They're gone, you South Gate bumpkin." She intervened, seizing Akennthiel’s shoulders and pointing to the distant fire "They left hours ago. Look."

"Why are they over there?" The young angel looked puzzled.

"In our Father's name! Are you really that dense!" Mathenael glared at a paling Aziraphale. "The damned snake he let in did it! He tempted them and they transgressed!"

"The serpent? But he seemed so nice..." Akennthiel turned, "Did he really do it Azi?"

"Well, I don't think it is our place to put the blame on any ONE--" Aziraphale was holding his hands up, Mathenael's eyes flashed and she swooped towards him.

"Blame? You let that foul thing slither his way in here, Aziraphale! And where is he now? Did you let him slip past again?" Her spear sparked with electricity and its blade hovered near his forehead. "Do you wish to fall, East? DO you wish to join him below?" Aziraphale's face went dark.

"You think I would conspire against Heaven, sister? I was not the one who’s pride overtook my duty in the Garrison. And need I remind you what pride cometh before?" The wave of divine fury that came after this comment nearly knocked over Akennthiel, who was transfixed by the exchange.

"North, East, cease this." A deep voice cut through the crackling of divine energy. A fourth figure had emerged from within the Garden, silver trident hacking through the thick vines that were coiling their way around the Eastern Gate. Mathenael stared hard at the new arrival, before pulling back her spear and taking a step backwards from Aziraphale.

"Greetings, all." The latest arrival was tall and broad, grey wings folded neatly at his back; his face and body glowed with inscribed Enochian letters, sacred patterns that coiled down his arms and legs.

"Greetings, Quequeriel." Aziraphale stepped back as well.

“Commander, I was only trying to--”

“This is not the Garrison, Mathenael, there is no need for rank.” Quequeriel stared towards the flame in the distance. “So they are gone.”

“They left hours ago.” Aziraphale sighed, sitting down on a nearby rock. “Well, since we’re all here now…”

“How did they start their fire, East?” Quequeriel turned towards him, “They should not develop that particular skill for another century, at least.”

“Oh, um, that would be-”

“I knew it! You gave them your sword, didn’t you?!” Mathenael gestured towards the flame. “You let in the snake and now you’ve given away your sacred sword!”

“Is this true, East?” Quequeriel looked somberly disappointed, a skill he had spent centuries developing to great success.

“She was with child, what was I supposed to do? Let them die in the wilderness, get eaten by beasts?”

“We are not supposed to interfere with the Plan!” Mathenael threw up her hands, “Our Father knows what it is He does, Aziraphale, we cannot interfere with His will!”

“And how do we know THIS isn’t part of His Plan? Why put that giant blessed tree in the Garden at all?” Aziraphale stood back up, advancing towards his sister.

“North, East, if you do not cease in this petty--” Quequeriel raised his trident.

“We can’t know.” A small voice interrupted, the others turned. Akennthiel sat on the ground, gazing up at the night sky, so still and starry over this particular mountaintop and so dark and tumultuous just a few miles away. “We can never know. Because…”

“...it’s ineffable.” Aziraphale finished the sentence, bowing his head. “You are right, of course.” He walked over and sat down on the ground next to Akennthiel, after a moment, Quequeriel followed. Mathenael stared at her brothers, all gazing at the sky, and sighed before crouching down as well and setting aside her spear.

“I suppose we can’t know whether they were supposed to leave.” she said.

“Or not.” answered Aziraphale.

“It is not for us to know.” Quequeriel laid back, resting his head on his arms.

“And even if it was, we could never understand.” Akennthiel waved a hand towards the stars, and shivered “It’s all too big.”

“So, what do we do now?” Mathenael leaned back on her elbows.

“We wait.” Quequeriel closed his eyes, “I’m sure He will come up with something.”

They sat in silence, listening to the far-away thunder and a sound that was farther-away still, a faint cry like some newborn creature.

“This new world seems very lonely.” Aziraphale gazed at the tiny flame in the distance.

“But just imagine brother!” Akennthiel smiled and leaned up against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Just imagine what they’ll do!”


	3. 329 BCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...it's been a while. You know how it is, life happens, you don't sit down to write. But my resolution for 2017 is to do more shit in general (including writing) so here's the next chapter of this weird fic. It was fun to research. Hope you enjoy if you're still interested!

     Aziraphale gazed up at the clear, cold sky. There was no sign of his fellow gatekeepers arrival, so he contented himself with lying down in the sparse mountain grass with his head pillowed on his arms. Stuck in the dirt beside him was an iron spade, the metal freezing cold to the touch of any who was not of angelic (or otherwise inhuman) stock. There was a whisper of wings and he found the sunlight blocked by a large figure.

     “Hello, brother.” Quequeriel said with a smile, extending a hand and pulling Aziraphale to his feet.

     “West. It has been a long time.” Aziraphale said.

     “So it has.”

     “And what have you been doing?”

     “My duty. For the most part,” Quequeriel grimaced. “Guarding the Leviathan is rather dull work, I’ll admit. The beast always sleeps. How have you been?”

     “Not well, I’m afraid. There was a bit of an…incident. It has left me feeling rather uncharitable,” said Aziraphale.

     “Persepolis?” Quequeriel asked. “What was it that made Alexander set fire to the Persian archives? I’d heard he was a patron of knowledge.”

     “Someone hissed in his ear that he should take a torch to it, unfortunately.”

     “The Serpent?”

     “We’re not speaking.” Aziraphale’s voice was icy. “At least Alexandria is still standing.”

     “Better that you not associate with that demon in any case. He has no good inten—“

     “Oh, look!” Aziraphale seemed eager to change the subject. “They’re here!”

     Mathenael landed first, her white gown billowing and armor glinting in the sun, mottled wings slowing her descent. Akennthiel gracelessly crashed to the ground.

     “South. North.” Quequeriel greeted Mathenael with a firm hand on her shoulder as Aziraphale helped the bedraggled Akennthiel to his feet.

     “It is good to see you.” Mathenael was smiling, something she had only become accustomed to in the past few centuries—cultish worship and adoration had done wonders to her demeanor. She turned to greet Aziraphale.

     “How goes life among the scholars, East?” she asked.

     “As well as can be expected, I suppose. How goes life as a pagan?”

     “Not just a pagan, a pagan goddess, Azi.”

     “Yes, of course, what are they calling you now?”

     “Athena,” she said, beaming. “Patron of the great city itself.”

     “I do have some concerns about that Alexander of yours. Too suggestible.”

     “Yes—well, that business with Persepolis was unfortunate. Nothing of my doing.”

     “Believe me. I know.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

     “I made a donkey talk!” Akennthiel appeared between them; Mathenael sighed and turned back towards Quequeriel.

     “I thought that might have been you, South! It had your mark.” Aziraphale put a hand on his enthusiastic brother’s shoulder and they all started walking towards the summit of the mountain. “Were you able to help that Balaam fellow?”

     “I sure hope so…” Akennthiel looked concerned. “Our Father hasn’t given me a job like you all. Mathenael watches the conquerors, Quequeriel guards the Leviathan, and you preserve knowledge. I thought I could be a messenger—but all I’ve done is set a bush on fire and wrestle that one guy in the desert.”

     “I’m sure your duty will come in time, brother.” Aziraphale smiled gently.

     A sudden, muffled noise emitted from the large embroidered pouch that hung at Mathenael’s waist—the fabric bulging strangely and quivering.

     “What is that?!” Aziraphale said, horrified.

     “Oh, yes. I wanted to introduce you all.” Mathenael loosened the pouch. The object she removed first appeared to be writing mass of green and black cord, but the shape resolved itself into a blindfolded woman’s head with coils of hissing serpent hair. The strange noises also resolved themselves into colorful Grecian cursing.

     “You bitch of an angel, you said I could come out when we arrived!” The head, black cloth tied around the eyes, turned wildly suspended by reptilian locks from Mathenael’s hand. “Take off my blindfold!”

     “Brothers, this is Medusa.” Mathenael unknotted the cloth. “Normally I would advise looking away, but she can’t paralyze immortals.”

     “No matter how hard I try,” the head said bitterly. She blinked in the bright sun, elliptical pupils dilating, and turned to observe the others with her bright yellow-green eyes. “Athena, you weren’t joking when you said you were the most attractive of your siblings.”

     “Excuse me?” said Quequeriel. “I find that statement offensive.”

     “It’s all a matter of taste, West,” said Mathenael with mock seriousness.

     “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Medusa.” Akennthiel leaned down to the eye level of the head. “You seem to be missing your body.”

     “No shit.” Medusa spat. Akennthiel gasped in horror.

     “Be nice, please,” Mathenael said, “or you’re going back in the bag.”

     “It’s her fault, if you’re wondering, moon-face.” Medusa twitched her chin towards Mathenael. “She sent a psychopath after me and he took off my head!”

     “I didn’t mean for it to go that far with Perseus. I swear.” Mathenael said, more to her brothers than anyone else.

     Medusa looked livid. “Well it did go that far. And since I can’t die either—“

     “—here we are...” the angel finished. “I will find you a new body. As soon as we get over this anger problem—“

     “—this ANGER problem happened because you cut off me off my body and keep me in a bag!”

     The arguing continued the rest of the way up the mountain, until the group reached a small rocky outcropping. There they found the purpose to their gathering, a thin brown branch with a few pale green leaves poking out from the ground.

     “Is that it?” said Akennthiel, with uncharacteristic graveness.

     “It is a persistent plant,” said Aziraphale.

     “The Tree itself,” Quequeriel looked over his shoulder. “There’s a settlement near here now, isn’t there?”

     “Kharput. They are getting close.” Aziraphale nodded. “We’ll have to be faster next time, it’s practically a sapling.”

     “What do we do with it?” Mathenael asked. “We can’t very well destroy it, can we?”

     “The Woman dropped the core of the fruit after they ate, it had four seeds in it,” Aziraphale said. “Meaning we have to do this three more times. I suggest we all take one of them.”

     “And then what?” said Quequeriel.

     “We do what we were made to do, we guard it.” Aziraphale took the spade he had been carrying and plunged it into the soil. He levered out the plant, careful to not break any roots, and looked at the gathered assembly. “Who’s first?”

     “I’ll take it.” Quequeriel stepped forward and moved his hands in a circular motion around the seedling. There was a change in air pressure and water seeped from the ground. The water cupped the plant, swirling around the delicate roots until it mixed with the dirt and hardened into a pot, gray as the mountain soil. He took it in his arms, gently cupping the leaves away from the cold wind that was now blowing around the group.

     “Our duty is done.” Aziraphale stood and nodded at Quequeriel. “It will be centuries before we have to attend to it again.”

     “Will it be that long before we see each other?” Akennthiel asked mournfully.

     “It’s ineffable, isn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled. “I hope not, though.”

     “I think I shall stay here for a while longer, brothers,” Mathenael said as the others prepared to take flight. “I have much to attend to as a goddess, so a respite is welcome.”

     “Goodbye then, North.” Aziraphale ascended into the sky with his spade.

     “Nice to meet you, Miss Medusa!” Akennthiel took off as well.

     Only Quequeriel remained. He looked to his sister and the head she carried. “It can be very lonely, can’t it?”

     “What can, Quequeriel?”

     “Living forever.”

     “Yes. It is.”

     “You have her now,” he pointed at Medusa.

     “It’s not a functional relationship.” Medusa grimaced.

     “Yes, but it’s something isn’t it? And try as he might to deny it, I know Aziraphale will forgive the Serpent.”

     “Why?” asked Mathenael.

     “Because the immortal have little else but each other.” Quequeriel smiled sadly. “And some of us even less than that.”

     “Are you lonely, out at sea?” Medusa asked.

     “Always.” Quequeriel turned and took off, cradling the plant he carried. Mathenael and Medusa stood in silence until the angel spoke.

     “I will find you a body, you know.”

     “Just let me be angry at you for another few centuries.”

     “As you wish,” said Mathenael fondly.

     A third voice came from the vicinity of Medusa’s scalp. “He’s still mad at me about Persepolis, isn’t he?” it hissed.

     “Give that a few centuries as well, Serpent.”


	4. 1851

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter this time. I had this partially written for a while but just finished it off. Enjoy!

     Far off the coast of Japan, a three-masted ship rocked in a violent storm, lightning crackling on the mastheads. Men stood pressed together on the deck, all faces turned up towards a figure holding a harpoon high above his head, the sharp points glowing with a ghostly green aura. A flash of lightning illuminated the man, his face twisted into a grimace, brow lowered; a white scar, like a fissure in a craggy rock, ran the length of his face. From the hem of his dark coat a white spur of bone emerged, the tip of a pegleg braced in a knothole on the deck. He raised the dripping harpoon high and roared at the sky.

     “EGO NON BAPTIZO TE IN NOMINE PATRIS, SED IN NOMINE DIA—”

     There was a loud fizzing noise and a pop. The rain suddenly ceased, a thunderclap cut-off mid rumble. The men fell silent, mouths agape as they looked behind their captain. He turned to see what they were staring at. A beam of light had cut through the clouds and was shining on the deck in a round disc, white light licking the cracked boards. The first mate fell to his knees.

     “See now captain! It is a sign from God!”

     “I know not what this may be Mr. Starbuck, but I fear no omen.” The captain raised his harpoon and flung it towards the light. The moment it touched the light it burst into flames and dissolved into ash, settling into a small pile on the deck.

     Now even the captain had fallen silent, mouth hanging open. The light twisted, a thin lozenge shape emerging within the beam. A humming had started, growing in volume and pitch to a high-pitched whine. The men clapped their hands over their ears, closing their eyes against the bright white light. There was another pop.

     “—ello? Hello? Is there anyone there?” A voice that somehow managed to speak Enochian in an English accent boomed out from the light—the lozenge pulsing with each word spoken. “Quequeriel?”

     A broad tattooed figure standing on the deck heaved a mighty sigh, turning away from the pale sailor who was huddled behind his back.

     “Hello, brother Aziraphale.” The harpooner spoke in Enochian.

     “Oh there you are! I've been looking all over for you!”

     “And by our Father's grace, you have found me, it seems.”

     “Yes, well, I'm afraid this isn't a social call. Our bi-millennial get together has arrived.”

     “I am a little busy at the moment.” Quequeriel gestured at the crowded boat, its crewmembers still stunned silent.

     “Yes, what ARE you doing?” The intangible light gave the impression that it was raising an intangible eyebrow at the captain, “Was he baptizing that dreadful harpoon in the name of the devil?”

     “In angelic blood, no less. As for what I'm doing…” Quequeriel glared at the light. “I'm doing my job, which is more than I can say for you, brother.”

     “Whatever do you mean?”

     “The maniacal inhabitants of that cursed rock you call a home is what I mean!” Quequeriel gestured towards the light with his harpoon, which seemed to be glowing more than it normally did (which was not at all). “The English been cutting a bloody swath over the rest of the world. What ARE you doing?”

     “Yes, well…” The light sounded embarrassed. “It’s a bit of a long story…Crowley—”

     “The Serpent?”

     “Yes, yes, him. He's been asleep for most of the past century, and well, we decided to call a truce…no interference. And after that “Enlightenment” business in France…well, it all got out of hand.”

     “And you trusted that demon? He has been playing you, East.”

     I assure you, he is not!” The light pulsed defensively. Quequeriel looked skeptical “We have an agreement! Also…” The voice trailed off.

    “What?”

     “Well, he's been sleeping in my guest bedroom, so I keep an eye on him.”

     “Really, East?”

     “You didn't really answer my question, West. What ARE you doing?”

     “Ummmm.” Quequeriel looked guilty. The sailors around him were starting to shift; the one behind him tapped his shoulder.

     “What's going on, Queequeg?” he asked.

     “Hush, Ishmael. I'll explain later.”

     “Quequeriel.” The lozenge pulsed.

     “The Leviathan…it got loose.” The light flashed brighter, the crewmembers all covered their eyes again. The captain cried out in pain.

     “The LEVIATHAN is loose?!”

     “Bring me another harpoon Starbuck, I will exile this pagan god that speaks in such strange tongues!” the captain shouted.

     “I beg your pardon sir?!” The light sounded deeply offended.

     “Oh, for our Father's sake…” Quequeriel rolled his eyes and leapt to the upper deck in a jump that seemed deeply unlikely for any human. He landed lightly in front of the captain and jabbed two fingers into his forehead. The captain wobbled, then stumbled backwards and was caught by his first mate.

     “When he wakes, Mr. Starbuck, he'll think he lost his leg in an unfortunate cart accident.” Quequeriel said in perfect English. “I would suggest turning around and heading back to Nantucket.”

     “What—who—”

     “Not particularly important.” Quequeriel turned back to the light. “I'll come, just give me a minute. You could lend me a bit of power too, it’s been a drain to keep this damn ship away from the beast.”

     “Of course, brother.” A tendril extended from the light, touching Quequeriel’s forehead. His tattoos briefly glowed.

     “I am looking forward to hearing your explanation for this.” The light said. There was another loud pop and it vanished, leaving behind a faint smell of ozone. The sky rumbled and a few drops started falling.

     Quequeriel walked back down into the crowd of men, finding a small figure crouched in fear underneath the steps, muttering. He leaned forward and gently placed his thumbs over the figure’s eyes. The boy sighed, then blinked and looked around.

     “What happened, sir?”

     “I am sorry, young Pip. You did not deserve the madness that comes from gazing upon the Leviathan. Unfortunately, I cannot restore your memories since the incident.”

     “What was that?” He looked confused. “Your English has improved Mr. Queequeg.”

     “Dagoo, Tash…” Quequeriel turned towards two large men with harpoons, who looked unfazed by the scene that had taken place in front of them. “It's been a pleasure. Take my advice and let the white whale be.” They grunted in assent.

     “Ishmael…” Quequeriel turned towards the pale young sailor. “If you want, you can come with me.”

     “This is all very confusing Queequeg. Where are you going? And since when have you spoken English this well?”

     “Both answers are complicated and I will explain in time.” The harpooner held out a hand. “Will you come?”

     “Do you really need to ask?” Ishmael smiled and took his hand.

     “Hold on.” Quequeriel pulled the other man close, curling an arm underneath his back, and closed his eyes.

     There was a tearing sound and two large wings appeared from his back, feathers scattering across the deck. The other men jumped back, yelling as Quequeriel crouched and leapt into the air sending the sails billowing and rigging snapping.

     “God in Heaven!” Starbuck nearly dropped the captain and the other mates covered their eyes as Quequeriel and Ishmael disappeared into the clouds. In another moment, the rain started falling hard again, and the captain groaned. Starbuck set his jaw.

     “Mr. Stubb, set course for home. This mad quest ends now.”

     “Yes sir, Mr. Starbuck.”

*****

     Their flight over the sea was swift—Ishmael found that the many questions he had could not be voiced over the rushing wind and the pounding of his own heart. Quequeriel slowed to a stop, his beating wings keeping them in place above the water.

     “…Queequeg?”

     “Just a moment.” He aimed his harpoon, now transformed into a gleaming silver trident and pointed it to the water below them. White light shot from the prongs and plunged downward, the water around it swirling and evaporating into steam. Ishmael, transfixed, watched as Quequeriel wrinkled his brow and pulled the trident back, saying something in a tongue he could not make sense of. After a moment, there was a deep rumbling—ancient and terrifying—and a large hand went over his eyes.

     “Mortals really shouldn’t look upon the Leviathan. I was only able to bring Pip’s mind back because he’s young,” he said. “This will only take a minute.”

     Though he could not see, Ishmael could hear the water churning below them. There was a rushing noise that could have been the spout of a whale, were it not so loud. Suddenly, the air split with a long, low, ancient cry. Ishmael recalled once seeing a wild boar being hunted; even in its final death throes, the animal and wailed and bellowed with primal rage that only ceased with the hunter’s knife. That was the closest comparison he could find to this sound, but it was as if hundreds of boars had joined in chorus. But behind it all was a hum that turned his blood to ice and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He knew instinctively that whatever was below them was something he never wanted to encounter, or even think about, again.

     “Leviathan, it’s time to go home.” Quequeriel said. The sounds grew louder. “No—NO. Honestly, you already ate a man’s leg…you’ve caused enough—”

     The sound was threatening to split Ishmael’s eardrums.

     “I _know_ it’s boring down there, but I can’t have you just…swimming around causing trouble.” Queequeg sounded impatient.

     The sound tapered off into a low gurgling moan. There was the sound of vast churning waters. Then, silence.

     “I should have done that two years ago.” Queequeg said, uncovering Ishmael’s eyes “But then, I wouldn’t have met you—would I?” He flapped his wings and they set off, Ishmael still wide eyed and slightly terrified.

     After he had a moment to recover, Ishmael poked at his angelic carrier.

     “This will take some explaining, Queequeg.”

     “It seems I have a lot of explaining to do today, dearest.”

     “Dearest! You’ve never called me that!”

     “Do you mind?”

     “No, of course not.” Ishmael smiled and looked out at the sea passing underneath them. “I always knew there was something different about you.”

     “And I of you.”

     “There’s nothing special about me, Queequeg.”

     “Ishmael,” the angel smiled down at his companion. “Do you really think I would have chosen you as a companion, out of the thousands upon thousands of humans I have known since the beginning of creation, if there was not something special about you?”

     “What would that be, then?”

     “Well, I don’t think anyone I’ve ever met would accept this situation as quickly as you seem to have.”

     “As far as I know, I’m still on the _Pequod_ ,” Ishmael said. “And when I wake, you will be in the hammock next to mine and laugh at this story.”

     “Do you want to know the truth?” Queequeg asked.

     “Of course.”

     The angel paused, considering his next words. “My true name is Quequeriel,” he began. “I was an captain in Our Father’s—that is to say, the Lord’s—Garrison for many eons. After that, I guarded the Western Gate of Eden. After humanity’s fall from grace, I was assigned to guard the Leviathan of the Seas. Which escaped. Which is how we met.”

     “So Moby-Dick—” Ishmael said.

     “—is the Leviathan, yes.” Quequeriel finished.

     “No wonder everyone on that boat was mad. And why did you never speak English?”

     “Convenience, mostly. No one expects me to know English.” Quequeriel gazed down at the water. “I _was_ hoping to solve this problem without too showy a use of angelic power. That can get us reprimanded nowadays.”

     “What will happen to the Pequod, then?”

     “If Starbuck has a sane bone is his body, and if any man on that boat does it’s him, they’ll go back to Nantucket. He has a hold half-full of whale oil already.”

     “I have to say, Queequeg—or Quequeriel I suppose—though I have often found godliness in the sea, I don’t find much godliness in the hunting of whales.” Ishmael said. “Can an angel really kill God’s creatures like you do?”

     Quequeriel smiled sadly, “You always cut to the heart of it, don’t you dearest?”

     “I was only wondering.”

     “Truth be told, I have neither seen nor heard our Father in eons. It’s difficult to say what he would approve of now.”

     “I suppose they did sacrifice animals in the Old Testament.”

     “True.”

     “Are there others?” Ishmael asked, “Other angels, I mean.”

     “That answer will come sooner than you think,” Quequeriel said “We’re on the way to see my siblings.”

     “Your siblings?”

     “The other angels who guarded the Gates of Eden. We have a task we need to complete.”

*****

     The others were already assembled below the summit when they touched down. The town nearby had expanded onto the plain below, but the ancient stone towers of Kharput still cast shadows from the mountainside.

     “Brother Quequeriel!” Akennthiel was waving “Who do you have with you?”

     “Siblings.” Quequeriel landed, wings slowing his descent. “This is Ishmael.

     “Is he from the boat, Quequeriel?” Aziraphale asked, “Is it really appropriate to have a mortal here?”

     “I could ask you the same thing about your houseguest, Aziraphale.”

     “What houseguest?” Mathenael asked, sounding delighted. Another woman stood with her back to them, adjusting a dark mesh veil over her face.

     “Hello!” Akennthiel took Ishmael’s hands in his own and grinned widely at him, “I’m Akennthiel, Angel of the Southern Gate!”

     “Oh…hello.” Ishmael was taken aback by the angel’s enthusiasm.

     “Ishmael,” Quequeriel put a hand on his shoulder. “Over there is Aziraphale of the East, who you met on the boat. And this is my sister Mathenael of the North and her companion Medusa.”

     “Pleased to meet you ma’am, I— “ Ishmael paused when he came to the other woman, only a sliver of olive skin visible under the black fabric that covered her eyes. He had spotted the snake resting on her shoulder, beady black eyes winking. Slow realization dawned as he followed the snake up to her hat brim, where several more angular faces watched him carefully.

     “You are _the_ Medusa, then?” Ishmael asked, breathlessly. Medusa grinned with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

     “The one and only,” she hissed.

     “He’s a sharp one, Quequeriel.” Mathenael said.

     “Medusa, where _did_ you find a body?” Aziraphale interrupted, “Last time we met I seem to recall you being transported via bag.”

     “The Revolution in France.” Medusa said. “This once belonged to some Duchess of something-or-other, and considering she wasn’t using it…” she waved up and down her well-dressed torso. Aziraphale looked disapprovingly at Mathenael.

     “Well she _wasn’t_ using it, East!” Mathenael reproached. “And she didn’t even have syphilis!”

   “Thankfully for _both_ of us.” Medusa added.

     “Hrm…” Aziraphale sighed. “We’d better get on with it, hadn’t we?” The group ascended the hill until they came to the summit. The plant had regrown, though it was smaller than before, only a few pale green leaves fluttering in the wind.

     “What is it?” asked Ishmael.

     “The Tree itself.” Quequeriel answered. “The Downfall of Man.”

     “My God!” Ishmael leaned into examine it. “It looks so…so…”

     “Ordinary?” Aziraphale finished. “Yes, most of the truly important things do.” They all stood in silence for a moment, before Mathenael stepped forward.

     “We’ll take it this time,” she said. “There’s an empty spot in our greenhouse.”

     “What does she mean—this time?” Ishmael leaned into Quequeriel.

     “The fruit had four seeds. I took the last one,” he answered.

     “You have an offshoot of the Tree of Knowledge?!” Ishmael pulled back, “Where is it?!”

     “I have an island where I keep my things.” Quequeriel said, “We’ll have to move there, I expect, since you can’t fly.” Ishmael lapsed into shocked silence.

     Mathenael chanted a few words and drew her hands around the plant. The plant lifted, dirt falling away from the roots, until it hovered a foot above the ground. Then, clapping her hands, Mathenael drew vines from the dusty Earth and coiled them together. The plant settled into the container they formed and Medusa took it from where it still floated above the Earth.

     “This will look wonderful next to the olive tree,” she said.

     “Well…that is that then.” Aziraphale took out his pocket watch and flipped it open.

     “Come now, East, how often are we all together?” Mathenael said. “Besides, I want to get to know West’s companion.”

     Ishmael turned towards her. “Really? Because I have a good deal of questions I am hoping to ask you!”

     “Careful,” Quequeriel said, “Once you get him talking it’s hard to stop.”

     “Oh, hush,” Ishmael took his arm.

     “Well, I suppose…” Aziraphale flicked his watch close.

     “We’re in Turkey, brother!” Akennthiel said, “Let’s all walk to the town and get a şiş kebap!”

     “A kebab does sound nice…” Aziraphale said, “I suppose we could.” The group was already walking towards the settlement—Akennthiel skipping, Quequeriel with an arm around Ishmael, and Mathenael and Medusa carrying the plant suspended by vines between them.

     “Provided, of course, there’s some tea as well,” tucking away his watch, he followed.


	5. 1923

     When he heard the voices, Crowley was on Aziraphale’s sofa sleeping of their latest binge of a terribly vintage red. He could tell by the vague itching of his ears that Aziraphale was speaking Enochian to someone in the kitchen. He sighed and rolled over, pulling a cushion over his head. Several minutes later, he heard Aziraphale come back into the drawing room—he peeked out from beneath the tasseled pillow to see the angel searching his bookshelf near the fireplace.

     “What was that about?” Crowley lifted himself up on his elbows. Aziraphale looked surprised—he seemed to have forgotten Crowley was still there.

     “Oh, that was Quequeriel.” Aziraphale picked a dusty tome and opened it on the coffee table. Nudging Crowley’s legs over, he sat and began pouring over the text.

     “Your brother?”

     “Yes, I’m afraid it’s not good news.” Aziraphale had opened the book to a crudely drawn map that covered both pages, scribbled handwriting crammed in the margins.

     “Is it his human?” Crowley yawned.

     “Don’t call him—” Aziraphale started, “Well, yes, it is Ishmael.”

     “He finally on his last legs?”

     “He’s a very old man, Crowley.” Aziraphale didn’t look up from the text. “Quequeriel’s done all he can to keep him alive, but…well…”

     “Time comes for all mortals.” Crowley laid back and closed his eyes. There was silence from the other end of the sofa.

     “Crowley…” Aziraphale started.

     “What, angel?” Crowley opened his eyes.

     “You wouldn’t…well…” Aziraphale hesitated, “…happen to know where the Fountain of Youth is?”

     Crowley sat up, “Do I know _what_?”

     “The Fountain of Youth! The water that makes the mortal immortal!” Aziraphale said, “I know it’s a legend, but I just have a feeling. Of course, Florida is the generally accepted location…but _where?”_

     Crowley could now see the map in the book was of the United States, “Angel—” he started.

     “But if not there, then _where?_ South America? Africa might make sense, but we’ve got a whole _continent—“_

“Angel—”

     “Or maybe it’s closer to where the Garden was…there would be something poetic in that.”

     “ _Angel!”_ Crowley shouted. Aziraphale stopped and looked up.

     “Well—do you know?”

     “Even if I did, there’s something very unangelic in making a human immortal, isn’t there?” Crowley said.

     Aziraphale let out a long sigh and stood, going for the bottle of wine resting on the floor (somehow full again). He took a swig and passed it to Crowley, sinking back down into the sofa and moving Crowley’s feet to his lap.

     “Living forever can be very lonely,” he said, patting Crowley’s leg.

     “Only if you don’t know where to find friends.”

     “Crowley, please.” Aziraphale gave him a warning look. Crowley mimed zipping his lips.     “Immortals, we see people come and go. We see the…“ Aziraphale waved a hand “…the impermanence of everything.”

     “…except for us.” Crowley finished.

     “Exactly! So when we find something we want to hang on to, we can only hope that it is like us—unchangeable. Or near so.” Aziraphale looked fondly at Crowley, “Mathenael and I. We’ve been lucky. But Quequeriel has never been an ordinary angel.”

     Crowley grunted. He could feel his cheeks go slightly pink. “What about Akennthiel?”

     “I don’t think Akennthiel needs anyone permanent, to be perfectly honest.” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “He finds new people to focus his energy on. Or maybe he’s just reincarnating the same five or six souls. Either way, he doesn’t seem to care if anyone remembers him.”

     “Well—in any case.” Crowley said, “Why can’t Quequeriel find a new human to be his pet?”

     “Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “Crowley, my dear.”

     Quite suddenly, Crowley felt shame for only the third or fourth time in his existence. “He really does love him, doesn’t he?”

     “Quequeriel never loved anything until he met Ishmael. I don’t think he loved humanity until he met Ishmael.” Aziraphale stared at the book on the table.

     “Your other siblings can’t help?” Crowley asked.

     “I’m afraid not. Mathenael doesn’t have the faintest idea…and Akennthiel is rather busy with that radio nonsense.”

     Crowley sighed and stood, setting the bottle on the floor and lurching towards the book. He pointed at the page. “There. The One, the Only, the sole true Fountain of Youth,” he said. Aziraphale dove for the book.

     “There?! But why?!”

     “It’s in a cavern deep below the ground—but Quequeriel should be able to get down there. Take Ishmael down there and bathe him. He’ll be good as new until Judgment Day.”

     “Crowley, you—“ Aziraphale seized his face and kissed him hard, “You terrible, magnificent demon!”

     “Agh!” Crowley squawked, his lips tingling, “Give us a bit of _warning!”_

     “What’s the point though?” Aziraphale said, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Why is the fountain in California, of all places!?

     “The _point_ , angel.” Crowley hissed, leaning in closer. “Is to let it ssseep into the groundwater.

     “The groundwat—”

     “The groundwater, yesss! Just small amounts, not enough for any real benefit.”

     “Except…”Aziraphale said. This had all the hallmarks of a Crowley-planned damnation scheme (the efficiency of which he had to pretend not to admire).

    “Except—given enough time and the right industries, a city will be built obsessed with youth! Kingdoms will be built, empires will fall, all in the pursssuit of vanity.”

     “It’s…it’s…”

     “Geniussss.” Crowley looked smug, “And that’s where the Fountain is. I only ask that you _stay out of it now_ , angel.”

     “I could plead ignorance.” Aziraphale kissed him again on the cheek. “I must let Quequeriel know the good news.” He rose, but felt Crowley’s hand on his arm.

     “You haven’t even heard the best part, what I’m calling it,” the demon said.

     “What are you calling it, dear?” Aziraphale smiled and leaned in as Crowley gestured so he could whisper in his ear.

     “Los Angelesssss.” The serpent’s tongue flicked at Aziraphale’s ear and he squirmed.

     “I _do_ have to contact Quequeriel,” he said, sounding reluctant. Crowley released him.

     “Hurry back.”

*****

     A week later, Quequeriel and a very invigorated Ishmael showed up on Aziraphale’s doorstep. Crowley had not been home (or rather, had not been permitted to go home) in the interim, so he was the one who greeted their guests at the door in a rather bedraggled state. Both pounced on him with bone-crushing hugs, Quequeriel laughing and mussing his hair as Ishmael chattered away. Crowley watched the couple—both now ageless and immortal—as Aziraphale prepared tea. He would never admit to the warm, fuzzy feelings in his stomach as he watched them, but one fond look from Aziraphale told him he wouldn’t need to.


End file.
